In the City
by smashandgrab
Summary: White collar crimes aren't the only crimes around, and white collar criminals aren't the only criminals burnt by one Neal Caffrey.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so this is my first "White Collar" story. I'm a bit uncertain about it, especially Neal's characterization, but I think that once a couple more episodes air, I'll have a good grasp.

I don't own anything to do with "White Collar" except for Riley. For better or worse.

* * *

The first thing Neal Caffrey noticed about the door to June's house was that it was unlocked. It took just a quick second glance to see the marks around the lock and know that it had been forced open, using a hammer and a blank. The scrapes around the lock were chilling in their familiarity – marks to the right of the keyhole, like the intruder had missed the opening and scraped at the handle a bit before getting it right.

The second thing he noticed was the black Louboutin high heeled shoe, bright red sole on display where it lay, thrown on the ground at the bottom of the staircase. He grabbed an umbrella and walked up the stairs as quietly as he could. Down the hallway, the second shoe was tossed in the middle of the hallway.

Caffrey tightened his grip on the umbrella as the sound of singing reached his ears, badly masked by the sound of running water. Lyrics from Santana's "Smooth" echoed through the house as he walked towards the bathroom, dreading and curious all at the same time. His bedroom door was unlocked when he tried it, and he ducked through cautiously.

He'd been threatened with death many times before, and his easy going, devil may care attitude only lasted until the devil actually _did _care and came to collect. And she might have just gotten in.

A gold dress was in a pile just outside the bathroom door. The door was cracked open, and a steady stream of steam was flooding out. He nudged it open a few more inches.

Behind the tempered glass, the singing had stopped, though he was sure that unless he was being listened _for_, she didn't know that he was here yet. Caffrey had time to take in a small, black, leather purse that was sitting on the countertop before the water stopped, and he turned almost guiltily away from where he'd been inspecting the lock that kept the purse shut.

Immediately, he was faced with gleaming black eyes and a practiced smirk. Too prominent collarbones and long, long legs.

"Neal Caffrey," she crooned, stepping towards him.

With every step that she took towards him, he resisted the urge to take another one away. Instead, he reached for one of the plush bathrobes sitting between the twin sinks, and shook it out. It was a smaller one that had been sitting there for as long as Neal had been staying at June's house, waiting for a female presence to use it again.

The entire time, he carefully kept his eyes locked on her. There were three cardinal rules when it came to dealing with Riley Becque: _No sudden movements. Don't make her angry. Get out as soon as you can_.

Rule three went out the window when she invaded your space, because there was no subtle way of doing suddenly leaving. Being obvious made rule number two follow three right out the window.

"Riley," he said, as she shouldered into the robe, and he smoothed the material over her shoulders as she slid her arms through the sleeves. "It's been too long."

Riley turned back around to face him, working the knot loosely around her hips, calculating smirk still playing at her lips. He was waiting for some scathing, bone cutting comment, but it never came. She just gave the lock on the zipper of her bag a quick tug, the steel coming apart in her hands, and then dug out a pair of lacy black shorts.

"Did you miss me?" she asked, bending down to work the article up her legs.

"Not even a little," Caffrey assured her, leaning back against the marble countertop and crossing his arms over his chest, like he had one of the best assassins on the planet in his bathroom every day.

She smirked up at him, eyes looking even darker through her blonde hair. "Go get me clothes."

"Right."

Neal actually took his time picking out one of his shirts for her. She'd always liked black, thought that it made her black eyes look even blacker, but he thought that she looked the best in dark red, or maybe navy blue…

She was sitting on the countertop, having added a matching black bra to the ensemble. He tossed the pale green shirt into her lap, causing her to glance up from the iPhone she was cradling in her hands.

The minute the smooth material touched her fingers, she started scratching at it, like she was looking for something, or testing the durability of the shirt, but then all at once she was uncrossing her legs and standing up straighter to pull it on, fingers moving over the buttons effortlessly.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asked, as he eyed the rapidly disappearing skin.

She didn't respond, and her eyes were unfocused on something over his shoulder as she brushed past him. He followed her out of the bathroom and out of the bedroom beyond that.

Neil loved June's kitchen. Unlike the rest of the house, which was classic vintage and wood paneling and old world charm, the kitchen had been created to be the export center for only the best foods that high society couples had ever eaten at any dinner party… ever. It was all sparkling clean, white flooring and marble countertops that took up what space wasn't replaced with some sort of stainless steel appliance.

It was normally loud, filled with a staff of at least four who normally had two different radios going, but Neal hadn't seen them for a day or two. They'd offered to stay, said that they didn't want to leave him without food, but he'd assured them that he could handle it.

When Peter and Elizabeth had gotten back from their trip, tan and buzzing about the loveliness, June had gotten inspired. She and Cindy had been on the next trip out, and June had left the staff with orders to follow Neal's directions. His only one had been that they all go home and enjoy a vacation. As much as he thrived on social interaction, he liked moments of solace.

But something was off in the kitchen. Something more than the girl standing next to him, hands set on her hips. It was the black bag sitting on one of the large islands. A bag that Neal was very familiar with. Drinks were forgotten as he stepped towards it, ripping it open and shifting through the various supplies in it. "Riley."

She hummed her attention.

"What the hell is this?"

"I thought it looked like heroin."

"Yeah. It does. What is it doing _here_?"

"What do you suggest I do with it? Leave it in an airport locker? That's the sort of idiocy that got you locked up in the first place."

"Vanity got me locked up," he muttered, shifting through a pile of clearly – because they're _his_,and he can see his signature in each one - counterfeit hundreds, until he reached a plastic box. He flicked it open and there were several small, glass vials. He tilted them in the light and watched the liquid shimmer. One vial was half empty. _Fuck_.

"No, I'm pretty sure it was idiocy."

Her voice draws him back, and he shuts the box with a snap. "You can't stay here," he said, gathering the bag up and pressing it into Riley's chest. She wrapped her arms around it awkwardly.

"Please remember who you're talking to."

He did. _God_, he remembered. The blood and the corpses and the slow smirks and quick laughs. "This isn't my house. I have a good thing here. You have to go."

"You're no fun. Would it help if I told you that I have something _very _important to tell you?"

"Last time you told me that, the 'very important thing' was that I would never find you."

"And did you? Did the FBI, even after you gave them such a gracious tip?"

_That _memory sent chills down Neal's spine. How did she know about that? And more so, what was she going to do about it? Riley didn't take well to being spoken to for too long without hurting someone – he suddenly regretted giving her a bag full of needles back – much less being tagged by the FBI.

"Come with me." Neal said abruptly, when they were halfway to the front door. He took the bag from her hand and set it on the floor behind the couch.

His hand found the middle of her back, and he felt her shudder against the touch. Then she went deathly still, and he pretended not to notice. "I'm showing you the view," Neal explained, motioning her up the stairs ahead of him. "June's got the best in the city."

She passed him with narrowed eyes and a flash of bright white teeth. "Oh, you mean it's not yours? I always thought New York City was _yours_."

And just like that, they settled back into their old game. Twenty questions, back and forth, back and forth. And once they were all gone, that was it. Riley had been the reason that they'd settled into a system composed entirely of questions – Riley was good with answers, but not with opinions – and she couldn't hold a conversation longer than the time it took to work through the total forty questions. Not that it mattered, as most of her answers were lies anyway.

"So how is Boston these days?"

"Fine," she grinned. "I'd ask you about prison, but for one, I'm not that interested. And for two, it would appear that you are, in fact, not in prison anymore."

"It appears that way."

"Except for that," she mused, and pointed towards his ankle, where the bracelet was just a slight outline.

"Except for that," He echoed, drawing an annoyed look from her. He barely noticed it as he reached around her to hold the door open for her.

She sent him another sharp glare, but walked out onto the rooftop anyway. Riley paused in the middle of the roof and spun around, a small smile on her lips as she stopped. Neal groaned inwardly. Smiles were always the worst.

"How does that work? Flash those pretty blue eyes of yours and you get taken out of prison to help the FBI? I bet that's what you did, too, isn't it?" She was walking backwards now, her heels – when had she put them back on? – clicking cleanly across the stone, adding a slow, unhurried tempo to her speech.

"Something a lot like that," he agreed, following her towards one of the stone railings at a slower pace.

"They are awfully pretty, you know," she continued, thoughtfully. "They're going to get you into trouble. You're going to go around flashing those doe-eyes at the wrong person, and they are going to get cut right out of your head, I swear it, Caffrey. What are you going to do then?"

"I'm sure my charm will make up for it," he answered tensely.

She stared at him for a long minute before shaking her head, laughing to herself. The sound, which started as a soft, perfectly normal – though not when you paired it with _Riley_ – and spiraled into something high-pitched and hysterical.

"What is _wrong _with you?"

Riley let her laughter trail off, tilting her head at him, and settling back into her smirk. "It's just… you are far more pathetic than I remember. It's just funny that you are the supposed second coming of white collar crime. How could someone who was supposedly so smart, end up wound up tight around an FBI agent's finger? They don't need you. They're better than you are – though I'm sure that you remember that – and I'm not claiming to know what the FBI is planning, but you are falling right into their little plan. It's – you're – just so _fucking _pathetic."

Neal hoped and prayed to all the gods that his breathing just sounded that harsh in his own head, and that it was calm on his exterior. He went to talk and tried to manage to keep his tones calm and dulcet without having to clench his teeth:

"That's not really what I meant. I meant, _there is something _seriously wrong _with you_. What is it?"

She smirked. "You know I don't do psychological questions, _Neal_," And _there _was the slow purr of his name, the one that made him want to lock himself in a closet. "So… It's my turn, because you broke the rules."

Neal didn't think it was fair – it _wasn't_, he wanted to argue, but something wouldn't let him – but nodded. "Yeah. Fine. Go."

Riley sighed, and seemed to think about it for a minute. She stared out over the panoramic views of New York City, and then turned back towards him, stepping forward to pace in a close circle around him.

She stopped where she'd started, right in front of him, and lifted one hand to twin it through his hair, tilting his head down towards her. She blinked at him, black eyes playful.

There was a shift of dread, and Caffrey wanted to yell at her to stop, to shut up, that they were done playing this game, that he was going to activate his tracking device, anything to stop it when she said -

"Do you want to know how long it took your girlfriend to die after I slit her open?"


	2. Chapter 2

My goodness, you guys are amazing! I think I replied to everyone, but if I didn't, just know that I really appreciate the support.

That being said, haha, this chapter is up a lot later than I would have liked, or planned on. Stuff came up, and I got delayed. You know how it is, I trust.

I don't like this chapter as much as the first one, but I really wanted to get something up.

I still don't own anything to do with "White Collar!"

* * *

Neal clenched his hands around the forgotten umbrella, that he had somehow kept a hold of through the minutes. She breathed out and he breathed in – Out, and In. Out, and In. Out. In.

He stepped away from her. Just a half step, staying close enough that he could see the amusement as it flickered into her eyes. "You killed her?"

"You know I don't lie."

"I've seen you lie a hundred times."

"Not when the truth is more painful," she reminded him, and he saw the exact moment she stopped the half attempt at hiding a smile. Her bright white teeth flashed at him, and she gave a short shout of laughter.

Neal turned on his heel all at once, heading for the door.

"It was really quite interesting," Riley mused, as she followed him. "She really held out for a long time, you should be proud. I had a lot of fun with her. What's that word… Creative expansion?"

Neal's hand went white where it was wrapped around the door handle, and he knew that Riley could see the tension written across his back. He finally turned the handle and stepped through, and although the door closed behind him – without Riley following him – he never stopped waiting for that bullet.

It was a pointless fear. Not only would she never shoot him in the back – "I'm an _honest_ assassin!" – but he'd watched her get dressed himself, and she didn't have a gun.

Still, the thoughts did little to calm him down as he paused to retrieve the bottle from its spot on one of the cluttered shelves, and replaced it on one of the empty shelves in his temporary room. Neal stared at it for a long moment, giving himself another chance to crack Kate's message. For every bit of brilliance that Neal could say he had without seeming overconfident, Kate had three ounces more. And she had never been sent to jail.

That fact offered him a moment of comfort. Riley wasn't stupid by any means, but there was a lot about the world she would never understand; stuff that was common knowledge to others. On the flipside, she had far less reservations than the rest of the general population, and was twice as reckless. She would follow every lead, every idea, because she could do it in a way that it would take less time than sitting around, analyzing which path _was _the right one. Kate was a _planner_, and while her plans hadn't failed yet, it was a time consuming path to take.

Neal gave the bottle a last, longstanding onceover. With rapidly chilling blood, he retreated to sit in one of the mismatched chairs scattered about the room, digging in his pocket for his phone.

He and Mozzie had never made a habit of communicating by phone, but Neal didn't have time to wait for him to show up. For his friend's sake, Neal didn't want him to show up at all, lest he be greeted by Riley.

The phone rang several times before it was picked up. Mozzie was only mildly confused as Neal rushed their pleasantries and jumped right to asking him about updates on the Kate front.

"I got you a picture," Mozzie reminded him.

"A_ month _ago!" Neal pointed out.

A month. Four weeks. Thirty days, give or take. A _month_. Kate had been across the country, with someone else's hand on her shoulder within a couple of days. There was no telling what had happened over the span of a month.

It wasn't until he'd realized that the silence had stretched on for a bit too long that he noticed how harsh he'd sounded. Neal sighed. "Look, Mozzie, I'm sor -"

"No, I guess I'm sorry. Kate is clearly too smart for me to keep tags on. Or is there something else you're not telling me? Should I check Portland, next? Did you give her _both _stones to check under?"

"C'mon, Moz, you know I didn't mean it like that. I'm just a little on edge, bec-"

"On edge? Really, Neal? That's your excuse? Neal, you have me trying to figure out how to pick a top-of-the-line ankle bracelet, as well as keeping tabs on Kate. So if anyone gets to be a little _on edge_," - Here, Neal can almost see the air quotes. - "It's me."

There was a long pause, and then Neal ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Riley's here."

Another long pause as Mozzie let the information sink in. "You know what, never mind. I _am_ sorry. What did you do to deserve that?"

"Nothing I can't take care of. You're forgetting a very important detail, Mozzie – I have connections now. Just get me an update on Kate as soon as you can, and steer clear of this place for a while."

"Hey, you don't have to tell me twice."

They spoke for another minute or two, mostly meaningless case details – how pissed the counterfeiter Neal had led the FBI to three days ago had been; how a local painting restoration company had been taking Upper East Side originals and selling them, giving the rightful owners a print instead, and _how _exactly he had figured that all out – before Neal hung up.

He went to make another call, to Peter this time, but stopped when he caught sight of the time. It was approaching three thirty in the morning, and he and Peter had just finished putting in a day's work at twelve. Factor in New York's traffic – insane, even in the middle of the night – and he'd only been home for about an hour or so.

Neal opened the door to his room and the green shirt he'd loaned Riley fell to the hallway carpeting from where it had been hanging on the doorknob. A glance behind him confirmed that the gold dress was still lying on the floor.

Light was pouring into the darkened hall from the door to Cindy's room, and Neal walked over to lean against the doorjamb, praying that he wasn't going to find the antique four-post bed on fire. What he did find was pretty damn close.

Riley was dressed in an ill-fitting pair of dark jeans, and a royal blue v-necked shirt. Clothes and pieces of paper were scattered on the floor around her, except for a couple of sheets that she was holding carefully between her thumb and her forefinger as they burnt and crumbled, the dark and dirty ash sinking into the plush white carpet.

Her artwork. It was probably worse than a few burn marks on the bed. "Riley!"

She glanced over at him, black eyes lighting up for a moment before darkening. She dropped the charred picture with the kind of sudden, sharp disinterest that helped make her so dangerous. She walked towards him, thumb never shifting from the lighter catch.

Neal _did not _flinch away from the lighter when she got moved it near his face. Stepped back, yes, but it was a very calm, calculated movement. Riley didn't even blink. Just let the catch go, and the flame disappeared.

"Riley," he started again, before realizing that he hadn't had time to think about what exactly he was going to say.

He must have stayed silent too long for her liking, because she reached up to tap him between the eyes with the still-warm lighter. "You're going to get worry lines," she warned cheerily.

Neal caught her wrist as she lowered it, sliding his hand down over hers and working the lighter out of her hand. She gave it up a bit too easily, allowing him a small smile and an unfocused stare. It was easy for him to steer her out of the room, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades – and he realized again how _skinny _she was, and remembered that he'd meant to get her something to eat before they'd run into their _problem_ – across the hall, and into his.

"I heard you talking to Mozzie, I'm hurt, by the way, that you told him to stay away. We haven't seen each other in a while; it would be nice to catch up."

"Of course it would be."

"It would be," she agreed, missing the sarcasm. Or just ignoring it. "I gave him three Glocks," she said abruptly, after a pause.

Neal laughed slightly – because, really? Mozzie packing a Glock? "What?"

"Kennedy," she said, motioning vaguely, as she started off towards one of the landscape paintings on the wall.

His art restorer. Neal crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. "The FBI packs more than a couple of Glocks," he said, drawing a lopsided smirk from her over her shoulder, but she didn't say anything else.

"You can stay in here," he said. He told himself he was doing it because he'd let the silence stretch for long enough, but it was really to try and distract her from her attempt to straighten the already straight painting.

He'd stay in Cindy's room. Sure, it didn't feel right, but he had done a lot of stuff that wasn't exactly "right", and at least this way, he could be sure that no more of the girl's property would be destroyed.

He wasn't too worried about her finding anything she shouldn't – he still wasn't exactly sure what the time frame was on her getting to the house prior to him arriving home, but he could assume that if she had been looking for anything specifically, she would have found it already.

More so, he didn't keep anything _too _important in his room, which was mostly empty or filled with mismatched furniture from around the house. Instead, he left it in the relative chaos of the upper levels, where case folders would compete for space with pastels and old photo albums on cluttered tables and eclectic bookshelves.

Neal stopped when he got to the doorway, leaning against it to hide the hand that held her lighter. He was suddenly aware that she hadn't as much as put up an argument, or insulted him for thinking that she'd really stick around.

"You're going to be here when I wake up?" Neal asked, dubiously. It would only be a couple of hours – Peter instructed him to be back in the office at eight – but the flight from New York City to Boston was shorter.

Riley laughed, before her face crumpled into some sort of sympathetic look. She didn't get it quite right. "When it comes to Kate, your hopefulness is partly adorable and partly pathetic. Either way, I want to be here when you see the photographs of that girl's dead body. I'm not going anywhere. On the contrary, I can't _wait_."

Neal shook his head as he reached in to pull the door closed. "Sleep well."


	3. Chapter 3

Oh my goodness, you guys! You're all so amazing, and you deserve much better than this chapter, especially after such a wait. I'm so, so sorry!

Like I said, this chapter is nothing special. Just some story progression that I needed to set up for later. (Oh, foreshadowing, yay!) And I still don't owe anything.

So, so sorry, everyone!

* * *

"Peter, look -"

"We don't have time, Caffrey. You decided to catch up on beauty rest while the rest of the world has been trying to get work done. Do you know how this makes me look?"

Neal backed away from the door as the agent invited himself in. "I know, I know, but my clock -"

"Of course it did. Of course your clock didn't work." Peter said, sarcastically, turning to glare at Neal in a too-familiar way. "Might I remind you that you were on time yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that?"

Neal raised his hands in what he hoped to be a placating gesture. He _had _woken up on time. The crash-shatter of his clock hitting the wall in Riley's room had roused him awake in a hurry. But she hadn't made any other noises, and Neal normally set his clock early, so that he'd be able to ignore it once before he actually _had _to get up for work. When the second round of bells hadn't come around, he'd simply stayed asleep.

"Right! So can't this just be looked at as a onetime mix up?"

"One mistake can get someone killed in this business; remember that."

Neal resisted the urge to roll his eyes, having heard the sentiments many times before. "Noted. But speaking of killing -"

"Did you kill someone, Caffrey?" Peter wasn't even playing their game anymore; there was only pure tiredness in his tone. He _was _upset about Neal being late. Like he was already hearing the sound of bars clicking shut as he left Caffrey in another jail cell.

"No! But I just -"

"Not now. Let's go." Peter ordered, at exactly the same moment Neal started to speak. Maybe it was fate, or maybe Neal was just a coward.

He hadn't completely sold himself on his own idea of going to Peter for help. The agent had already made it perfectly clear how he felt about Kate, or, at least, the idea of Neal going after Kate. But maybe Peter had gotten to the point where instead of thinking that Neal was going to go off after her, he could simply appreciate Neal's worry for an _ex_girlfriend.

"I can take myself to work."

"Nope. Your privileges have been revoked."

Neal switched directions. "I'm making coffee, Peter. You want a cup? I'm using that mix you like so much."

Peter stared at him for a minute, before shaking his head. "I'll be in the car," he said, and turned to leave. He got as far as the door before stopping, and turning back around, saying, "Bring me a travel mu-" His eyes caught on something. "I thought you said June wasn't here?"

"She isn't. She and Cindy went to South America for a couple of weeks." Neal could have sworn that he'd told Peter that. He knew he had, in fact, because Peter had immediately started to try to talk June out of it, insisting that Neal would do something stupid without her around to keep an eye on him.

Peter walked over and picked the forgotten black bag up with interest. "Normally, I'd stay out of your personal life. But as it is such a big part of your professional life, what with you practically biting at your leg to chase Kate, I can't help but question – why the _hell _do you have a Chanel bag?"

"Is it real?" Neal asked casually, even as the images of the drugs inside the bag flashed behind his eyes.

"It looks it. The biggest tell is usually in the quality of the inside stamp, so I couldn't tell you without the girl's permission." He turned the bag in his hand, not really examining, just looking, and looked up at Neal slowly, leaving just enough time for Neal to force his features into a confused expression.

Because he didn't know anything about Chanel handbags, least of all what girls kept inside them. Right. Of course.

"It's not a search, and more so, I want to keep my hand," Peter explained. Neal nodded, but the agent was unconvinced. "Please, Neal. You never asked Kate for a piece of gum, was told there was a pack in her purse, and then when you innocently went to get it, she about crashed the car?"

Neal smirked, the only outward sign that he was knowingly leading the agent back onto more stable ground. "You didn't have your own gum? What happened to Boy-Scout-Peter?"

It got the reaction Neal wanted – well, half wanted, because he _had _wanted coffee, but he figured he had to prioritize - Peter dropped the bag back to the ground with a roll of his eyes. "Come on."

* * *

Minutes and many blocks – forty minutes, he'd later learn from Cruz who was already waiting at the site when they finally arrived - later Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a watch, and held it out to Neal.

"Isn't this the watch Elizabeth gave you?" Neal asked, eyeing the watch suspiciously.

"More or less. Mostly more." A pause. "And less."

"Oh, lovely. Doctor Cryptic got loose in a technology lab," Neal commented dryly, taking the watch and slipping it over his hand. It wasn't nearly as loose as it had been on Peter – the _less _was a clear dig to the amount of links Peter had had taken out.

"We had a bug put in it," the agent said, tapping the watch with one hand and touching the side of his head with the other. Neal noticed the earpiece hidden discreetly behind the agent's ear for the first time. "You're going to fly solo on this one."

The bugs, his story, everything was up to him. It was either a test, _another _test, to see how much the FBI could really count on him, or it was a reward of sorts for his work on previous jobs. Neal decided it was a test, because he didn't know Kennedy well, but it would probably take more than a smile to get him to talk.

And then he remembered the Glocks that Riley had promised. "You really don't think he's going to check for bugs?"

Peter gave Neal a sharp look. "Caffrey, we're – I'm - not going to send you into a situation unprotected. There are guards stationed at every exit. If he sounds even remotely onto you, we'll run sirens in a car a couple of streets over. Kennedy will get paranoid, but it's New York, so he won't suspect you, especially since you're going to split at the sound, thusly coming off just as paranoid as him. It might even help, later on. You know, share war stories and all that."

It was a good plan, even by Peter's standards. "How long did it take you to finally ask Elizabeth for help to come up with that?" Neal asked with a smirk, straightening the watch on his wrist.

Peter rolled his eyes, as he handed Neal a tangled ball of wire taps and bugs to place around the warehouse, before brushing past Neal to walk to the driver's side of the nondescript silver sedan, rejoining Jones and Cruz inside. Jones typed away at a laptop, and Neal felt more than heard a low hum go through the watch. As quickly as it had started, the feeling stopped and he glanced at Jones – had something gone wrong?

The agent shook his head. Peter leaned forward to knock on the windshield and pointed towards the last warehouse on the street. Neal tapped his hat and spun on his heel, walking down the street as he heard the car start up and drive away.

Despite the 'No Trespassing!' sign in the door window, the doors to the warehouse were open and he walked in without any fanfare. There was a table in the middle of the room, and three guys looked over, immediately pushing away from the table and rising to meet him. The only person who didn't even bat an eyelash was Kennedy himself, sitting at the head of the table, and eating his lunch of fruit salad.

"Kennedy," Neal greeted grandly, walking forward with a smile, like he owned the place. Because, as he dropped a bug into a nearby umbrella stand, where it would be indescribable among the dust and shadows, he realized that he sort of did.

Kennedy raised an eyebrow and nodded at him. Or maybe it was at his friends, who had walked to meet Neal, and all at once two of them grabbed his arms while the other one went to work patting him down.

"I don't carry," Neal muttered, less of an argument and more of a fact. He had said the phrase so often, repeating it to the same people over and over, that it had almost become his mantra. Did he seem violent?

Kennedy laughed from behind his cloth napkin, and rose. "Neither do I," he said, even as he unbuttoned his jacket and held it wide enough for Neal to see the end of a gun protruding from one of his inside pockets.

At least Riley hadn't been lying. As he was released, Neal resisted the urge to smooth the wrinkles in his jacket. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, sliding a bug out of the pocket on his jacket. He cast a glance around the warehouse, nodding towards the first portrait he saw. "That a forgery? Or the real deal?"

Kennedy smirked. "That's for me to know, and the FBI to guess about. You're working with them, aren't you?"

"When it's convenient for me."

--------

Away in the van, Peter removed his earphones. They had gone all static after Neal had destroyed the bug, and he rubbed at his eyes tiredly. He would have to stop doing that. Bugs were hardly cheap, and the tech department wasn't amused.


	4. Chapter 4

Oh my gosh, you guys are _amazing_. Thanks so much for all of the amazing support. Special call out to Autumnights, for talking me off the ledge and being generally awesome, along with _all _of my reviewers and alerters! It really means a lot, and I can't thank you enough. (:

As I've said, I don't own anything, and especially in this chapter I use a passage from _Llyn Writings, _which you really should read if you haven't. Thanks again, everyone!

* * *

The charade didn't hold up for much longer. He heard the sirens start up a couple of minutes after getting patted down a second time, looking for any bugs that he might not have destroyed, and he was glad that he had dropped a couple more in dust ridden corners – he had also dropped one in Kennedy's buddies' pockets, but they didn't have to know about that just yet – and so there weren't too many left in his own pocket.

At the sound, Neal played the startled ex-conman perfectly – partly because he _was _startled. What had he said? Peter couldn't honestly be _that _upset about the bugs. Still, he kept his mind straight, focused on the job as always, and glanced down at his tracking device, which was blinking red, warning that he was out of his two mile radius.

When he looked back up, Kennedy was holding the gun out in front of him. Inwardly, Neal groaned, but externally, he just lifted his hands up and started backing away. He couldn't help noticing how foreign the object looked in Kennedy's hands. He wasn't comfortable with the weapon, and didn't _want _to shoot Neal.

"Get out of here, Caffrey. Lead your dogs away and never come back. If we hear that you spoke even a word of this to _anyone_, it will be the last thing you ever do."

Neal had hurried to the door as soon as Kennedy had said to. He paused only to glance over his shoulder at Kennedy, saying, "You don't have to worry about that; I broke the rules. I'm going back to jail."

Kennedy, having already lowered the gun, touched the side of his head in a sort of salute. "Better you than me."

Neal nodded and laughed dryly, more at the irony of the situation than anything else, before saying in farewell, "Yeah. Enjoy your lunch."

* * *

The rest of the morning passed in relative monotony, filling out paper work about the morning's operation. Peter hadn't offered up any details about why they'd pulled him out when they had, other than instructing him to go down to tech and apologize for getting another handful of listening devices destroyed – but really. Peter could _not _be that torn up about it. He'd planted plenty of them in the warehouse, and he hadn't given up any sort of information.

On the contrary, he had let someone believe that he was being taken back to prison. Now _that _would spread throughout the criminal world, and Neal was less pleased about that than he was when the news had first broken that he was working with the FBI. The thought only bothered him for as long as it took the elevator to go from tech to Peter's offices, because there was always another bust that he could show up at, and that news would spread, and everyone would know that he had conned Kennedy.

The criminal world was as bad as high school bathrooms when it came to gossip.

As he drew closer to Peter's glass enclosed office, Neal noticed that Hughes was there as well, standing at Peter's desk, and looking at something on its surface. He hesitated for only a second before pulling the heavy door open.

"Sir," he said, nodding at Hughes and hanging back, leaning against a filing cabinet. He barely got a glance in return. Hughes only tapped the item – a folder, Neal realized – and turned to go.

"Caffrey," he said like an afterthought, on his way out.

Neal waited for the door to swing all the way shut before advancing to take Hughes's place at Peter's desk.

Peter moved for the first time since Neal had gotten to the office as he approached, lifting the folder at an angle so that Neal couldn't see it without leaning over the desk and more into Peter's personal space than he knew Peter would be okay with.

"What's that?" Neal asked, rocking back on his heels.

"Transcript. From your meeting this morning," he explained, flipping the folder shut. "Hughes apparently got a look at some of our paperwork and wasn't particularly impressed with how far we are."

"Wasn't impressed?" Neal repeated, mildly surprised, "We know it's Kennedy. I saw the paintings this morning – you have records of him saying that he did it. It's just a matter of gathering more concrete evidence. This is the easy part, Peter."

Peter didn't answer for a minute, too busy unlocking one of his desk drawers and dropping the folder into it, before relocking the drawer and sitting back up. "You haven't been doing this long enough for anything to come easy to you."

Neal just smirked and looked out the window long enough for a traffic light to change from yellow to red. When it changed green and the row of cars tore off through the city, he glanced back to Peter, who was shuffling through even more paperwork on his desk.

"Why couldn't I see the transcript?" Neal asked as casually as he could, even straightening a cuff to add to his nonchalance. He didn't actually believe it was a transcript. For an FBI agent, Peter Burke really was an awful liar.

"You were there," Peter replied tersely without looking up. "You don't have to read it."

"I could have missed or forgotten something," Neal pointed out.

That made Peter look up. "Missed or forgot? Caffrey, you never missed or forgot my birthday, not after eight years. This was an hour and a half ago. Let it go. We'll go to lunch and then come back. Maybe we just need a break," Peter said, switching gears quickly so that Neal was unable to argue his point.

Instead, he just rolled with it.

"Let's go back to June's," Neal suggested hopefully.

Peter stared at him blankly. Neal seemed re-energized, like he was just a minute or two away from jumping up and down.

"I still owe you that coffee." Neal reminded him, not waiting for an answer, just smiling and retrieving his hat from the window ledge.

Peter shook his head to the ex-con's back and stood up to pull his jacket from the back of his chair and put it back on, before following Neal to the door.

"Neal," he said, as they walked through the offices. "Those _were_ the transcripts. I know you could get into that drawer," This time, Neal did break in a beat too early to protest, and Peter raised a hand to silence him. "I'm not saying you were going to, I'm just saying that you could. If it were something worth keeping from you, I would keep it somewhere more secure."

It seemed to placate Neal for the time being, and they were able to exit the office without incident. Neal started off for the parking garage, but stopped when he saw that Peter wasn't going the same way. His confusion wore off and his path changed mid-step when he saw the determination of Peter's face – he still hadn't _quite _managed the art of calling a cab.

The several yards between them weren't good for Neal. It was enough space for some part in his brain to think, _hey, let's tell him about Kate! _But not enough space for the other, more reasonable, part of his brain to have time to step in and point out that unauthorized shit was going down.

"Someone might have killed Kate." Neal said hurriedly, once he'd reached the agent. Peter didn't seem to hear him. "Kate might be -"

"You told me this theory already," Peter said, and it was the only indication that he'd heard him. His voice lower than was convenient for being right next to a busy, windy New York street.

Neal had long since gotten used to it – Peter had a bad habit of thinking that speaking lower was the same as speaking calmly. It just made it clear that he was bothered by something, rather than hiding it.

"I know, but now it's more of a… a lead."

Peter turned away from the street to face Neal, saying tiredly, "Then why follow it? If this is true, the best it leads to is a dead end."

"Peter!"

The agent raised his hands, head ducked in an attempt to hide the amused expression. "I'm sorry, that was too much."

Another cab, maybe two, passed before Neal spoke again, adjusting his hat before he muttered, "I don't know why you're so against helping me. If someone took Elizabeth, I'd help you. You wouldn't even have to ask."

Peter sighed and put a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Neal, I'm sorry for you, I really am. And if someone took Elizabeth, I'd fight like hell to get her back. But I'd also have some of the best agents the Federal Bureau of Investigation could provide backing me up. But someone didn't _take _Kate. She left. And even if I wanted to help you, I wouldn't have their backup, and two people can't find one girl in six billion."

"It's not about getting her back right now. It's about making sure that she's still alive. And whether she is or she isn't, I'll let it go. I just have to check on her, just this one last time."

Peter snorted, turning away from Neal and going back to work hailing a cab. "That's a lie."

Neal tried anyway, keeping pace with Peter as he paced back and forth. "I'm just asking for a picture. One picture of one crime scene. That's it."

"And what 'one crime scene' would that be? Do you have a police department? A city? Do you even know that the 'crime' has been reported?"

"More or less."

"I'll think about it. In the meantime, solve this case. And _stop smirking_! I said I'll think about it."

"That means yes." Neal gloated, and tipped his hat to a passing brunette, trademark smile back in place.

"Does not."

"Yes it does!"

* * *

When Neal walked into June's house, holding the door open for Peter and then shutting it behind the agent, Riley was sitting at the dining room table, knees bent in front of her with some sort of book propped against them, a pen in one hand, and the lighter Neal had taken from her the night before in her other hand. She lit it absently as her gaze switched from Neal to Peter and back to Neal, and then she let it fall out of her hand and clatter to the table.

Neal hung his jacket on the banister and rolled up the sleeves of the crisp white shirt he'd worn under it as he walked towards her. "Riley, this is Peter. Peter, Riley."

She looked back over at them, eyes lit with a sudden interest.

Peter nodded at her. "Yeah, hi,"

Riley's lips parted in a small smile as she pushed away from the table and began walking towards Peter. "A passing luminous creature spreads a call over the roof concerning death that cause of fear."

From the very moment that Riley had started speaking, her raspy, husky voice had inspired a certain dread in Neal that he should have gotten used to, and should have started heeding, but had yet to do either. He looked down and toyed with the hat in his hands until she was finished, and then for several seconds afterwards.

When he looked back up, Peter was looking at him expectantly. "I…" he tried for a minute, before glancing towards Riley. She was rarely lucid, but never_ quite_ so out there.

She just narrowed her eyes at the space between them and smirked. "And here I thought you were well read."

"Sorry to disappoint," Neal commented dryly, sidestepping her and walking towards the table, continuing as he drew closer, "Obscure poetry references aren't really my thing."

He was thankful to see that she'd only been working on a book of fill-in puzzles, but seemed to spend more time drawing in the margins than actually filling in the puzzles. At least it wasn't an "appointment book" or something.

"Yes, show him a three by three cut out of any painting and he'll know it in an instant, but say a line of poetry and he comes up blank," Peter joked.

Neal glanced back over his shoulder at him, and saw that he was still standing with Riley. "Oh, sorry, do you know where it's from?"

"I'm not the world-traveled, cultured thief here, now am I?"

Neal shrugged. "I don't know about that; you chased me through Europe for a couple of months."

"And I was too busy separating forged paintings from the real things to appreciate any of it."

"Learn to enjoy yourself, Peter," Neal said, "We'll have to go sometime."

"_Llyn Writings____._ Peter Riley," Riley broke in obscurely, throwing both agent and conman for a loop. It took Neal a minute to register that she was talking about the line of poetry.

It took Peter a minute or two longer, but when he caught up, he raised an eyebrow. "Makes perfect sense now."

Riley smirked at him absently, before turning on her heel and walking over to Neal. "Did you tell him about Kate yet?" She turned back to Peter, saying, "He has all these theories. And honestly, I don't think they're too out there. You know as well as I do that Neal has his share of enemies."

Peter finally stepped away from the door himself, eyeing Neal with an almost suspicion that made Neal want to protest and accusations. "Neal, if you really think that Kate is in danger, I wouldn't go around sharing your theories with everyone you encounter. If the wrong person hears…" He trailed off.

Riley tilted her head meaningfully, smirking at Neal brightly. "That's exactly what I told him."


End file.
